


plum cakes

by rmaowl



Series: january [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety, Baking, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky Barnes's Plums, Cake, Dessert & Sweets, Eye Color, Eyes, Fear, Fluff, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Nicknames, Panic, Polyamory, Reminiscing, Talking, bucky makes Too Many Cakes and is Sad, i am slowly realizing my tendency to ramble about how pretty brown eyes are, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 17:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17268317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rmaowl/pseuds/rmaowl
Summary: This is, rather remarkably, how Bucky ends up in the kitchen with an impossible amount of plum cakes.





	plum cakes

Bucky twitches in his seat, stretching and curling each individual metal finger. Tony keeps his distance, refraining from touching him in fear of worsening his current state, but he rambles on as background noise. He jumps from topic to topic spontaneously, and soon enough Bucky finds himself helplessly trying to follow Tony’s train of thought, because what the hell does this have to with that? The point is that it occupies him, preventing him from stressing out more than he already has. Tony’s good at that sort of thing, whether it’s a positive or a negative. Distractions are his specialty.

Moments after Bucky visibly calms down, Tony gently brings up beginning the removal process. Bucky gnaws on his lip as he mulls it over.

“I can go, Buck, if that makes it easier,” Steve offers, although suggesting such a thing appears to pain him. There’s an upset crease between his furrowed eyebrows.

"No, stay," Bucky blurts out, a tad desperate. His heart pounds dangerously; he’s uncomfortably aware of the blood pumping through his veins. His metal arm whirs and quakes, plates readjusting constantly with anxious anticipation. How could this punk imagine that he’d want anything other than his presence, his support?

Steve's by his side in less than a second, holding out a gentle hand, which quickly remedies the misunderstanding. While Tony has the hands of a mechanic, the hands of a pianist, Steve has the hands of an artist. Even now, there's wayward bits of dried paint beneath his fingernails. That surprises Bucky enough that he jolts out of his unpleasant thoughts, a hesitant smile crossing his lips. Typical Steve.

Both sets of hands are decidedly great for holding, though. Let's make that clear.

"I want you to stay with him for a little while afterwards, too," Tony instructs firmly. "Got that?"

Steve nods his assent.

And, yeah, Bucky gets it. Tony’s hard-working to a fault, always keeping himself busy, and thus he can’t appoint himself the task of watching Bucky just in case he freaks out or rejects the tech. It’s all good. It’s... fine.

He sucks in a breath, lets it go.

“We can start,” he says. His voice doesn’t sound like his own, hoarse and distant. Steve tightens his clutch on his hand.

“Yeah?” Tony asks, concerned, verifying.

“Yeah,” he says, steadily this time.

Immediately, Tony’s bots go into a tizzy, rushing forward to help out however they can. Bucky laughs breathlessly. One bumps at his fingers affectionately, searching for pets or scratches as a cat might. Tony, having already scanned and examined the arm in great detail, begins to remove layer after layer of plating. He’s gentle, working with his hands and his tools, occasionally asking DUM-E to grab things for him. He checks in constantly, whether it’s warranted or not. If Bucky stiffens in the slightest, Tony is there. It’s overbearing; it’s how he shows that he cares. Steve is there, too, all throughout the process. He holds his hand and lets him grip it tightly when the waves of anxiety threaten to consume him. Bucky focuses on breathing; he focuses on not focusing on the tattered remains of his metal arm, the chipped paint of the red star glaring at him out of the corner of his eye, laid across one of the many tables.

When the arm is gone, Tony announces it jovially, pleased with his work and relieved that the worst of it is over. DUM-E scoops it up and trashes it, or at least that’s what Bucky assumes. There’s a resounding crash and a lot of beeping so angry that it may as well be violent swearing. Can a bot be vindictive? Bucky is concerned.

Bucky's new arm attaches peacefully without complaint. It’s quiet, unassuming, and can easily be covered up if necessary.

Tony used up precious time to create this for him, and that means the world. Bucky tries (needlessly, in Tony's opinion) to express how grateful he is, only to be waved away with a faux-offhand comment. Bucky, perceptive as always, notices the glittering in Tony's sweet brown eyes. They're like melted chocolate, which is extremely unfair.

Ahem.

The structuring of the new arm is kinder on his body, and he no longer aches constantly. It's made from lighter metals. It's freeing in more ways than one, because HYDRA's tech no longer clings to his body. The arm forced upon him by HYDRA was intended to be a weapon and only a weapon. This arm is different, carefully crafted by someone he trusts and cares deeply for, meant for simple everyday use.

Bucky acknowledges that HYDRA has changed him. He knows that he'll never be the same; he knows it as certainly as he knows that Steven Grant Rogers is a little shit. It just... it feels more like HYDRA is a part of his history, now, on par with the storytelling scars that crisscross his body. They aren’t all that he is, or all that he can be.

Fuck them, he decides, a vaguely-familiar wry quirk to his lips.

What's the last thing they would expect him, the Winter Soldier, the Asset, the ghost story, to do?

This is, rather remarkably, how he ends up in the kitchen with an impossible amount of plum cakes. JARVIS dutifully rattles off instructions when inquired. There are endless bowls on various countertops, all coated in batter. There are too many plums, probably, but he doesn't stop to consider that. He's in the process of baking the best damn cakes known to humankind. The oven glows warm amber, illuminating the cakes already laid inside. The others await their turn.

"You were meant to be watching him, Capsicle," Tony says as he enters the kitchen, but there's only a tinge of exasperation in his fond tone. His expression is achingly soft. It's likely that he was informed of Bucky's current situation by JARVIS. Steve at least has the decency to look somewhat sheepish.

“I was,” he defends. “He just wanted to make some cakes.”

“And you... didn’t question that? At all?”

“Why would I? Bucky used to bake all the time.”

Tony melts. “Oh.” He approaches Bucky and his array of cakes with moderate caution. “Whatcha got there, Buckaroo?”

“I made too many cakes,” Bucky admits, sad. This is catastrophic.

“Yeah, you have, babe.” Tony snorts. “Nat’ll enjoy it, though.”

Catastrophic.

**Author's Note:**

> three noun prompt: freedom, cake, piano  
> dialogue prompt: “you were meant to be watching him!”


End file.
